"Sign here," she said and handed me the clipboard and pen. "It just says we're not liable if anything happens. But don't worry, the hospital's one block away."
"So have you ever had a deep tissue massage?" she asked.
"Um, I don't think so," I said. "I've had a lot of massages and I just really felt like I needed something to get the tension out. I've been struggling with some muscle pain."
She pumped a lot of oil onto her hands and laid a super-hot cloth on my back. It was awesome.
And then about five minutes into the massage I realized I had made an appointment with Hellboy. Giant fists pounded my muscles. I grimaced when she attacked the knots in my back. I actually yelled "That makes me nervous!" when she tried to rip my shoulder blades off my back.
Despite my appreciation for the peppermint scent on the cloth covering the face rest, I didn't appreciate the way her fingers bored into the space between my ribs. I didn't realize my kidneys were out of place but she spent an awful lot of time shoving them back into position.
I got some relief from a forearm massage that really hit the spot, but I believe I looked too relaxed because the next thing she did was take that spot between my thumb and forefinger in her vice-like grip until I yelped, "That hurts! Maybe I don't need help there!"
"Pressure point," she murmured and gripped it twice more.
I closed my eyes and tried to relax, thinking how it would be all be over soon and I could flee to the relative relief of my bikini wax.
"Come back in a month," she said, holding my neck tightly between her massive hands, thumbs poised at the base of my skull. "It will get easier."
Someone nodded my head, but I'm not sure who.